


One for sorrow

by RowanAndWitchcraft



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Injury, F/M, Magical Creatures, Mentions of Myth & Folklore, Monsters, Slow Burn, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:21:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24742243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowanAndWitchcraft/pseuds/RowanAndWitchcraft
Summary: The woods are a humid, dark place. Things unnamed lurk in its shadow, basking in ancient magic, and not all of them are benign.The woods are no place to wander. And yet, she finds herself under its cover when luck forsakes her.A fantasy AU no one asked for and no one needs, but maybe one you'll like.
Relationships: Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Original Female Character(s), Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Reader
Comments: 21
Kudos: 83





	1. Sigils and fire

These woods are a terrible place to be wandering at night-time. She knows that, because it is a matter of common sense. That dark magic and nightmarish creatures emerge from the humid earth when the moon is up in the sky. And, even if that part were not to be true, there are always dangers lurking under the thick cover of the trees, ones more prosaic in nature, hidden away in the dark.

She knows that, she knows that well. Many have been lost to the forest before. Some of them were stronger and braver than her. And yet, she finds herself trekking through the underbush, clad in light clothing as if she didn’t even possess one ounce of sensibility in her body.

The truth is that she had not planned on staying away from home this long. She had intended to return before sunset, before the sun even grazed the horizon in the far west. But day had turned into night faster than she had predicted, as it usually happened this close to the winter solstice. And now, here she is.

Her mind does not want to admit that she is lost. There is too much pride at stake, because she is supposed to know the area surrounding the village like the back of her hand. No one dares enter the woods as frequently as her. That is the reason why she always has the finest herbs, the freshest fruits and berries, the rarest roots. That is why the village people tolerate her and fear her in equal measures ‒because she has come back alive more times than any other person there.

Well, that can be about to change.

The thick, humid air makes moving almost as hard as if she were wadding through a lake, calm and refreshing but heavy with lime at her feet. Roots and low branches tug at her skirt and make her shoes get stuck. She can feel a few shallow cuts on her skin, not bothersome except for the stinging, and the heavy weight of the wicker basket on her back. Clearly, she has been too ambitious today, too greedy, and that has caused her not only to be late, but also to carry too much weight for her own good. Her movements are slow, and the muscles in her legs ache dully.

Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a gulp of water.

But that’s a worry for later, if she makes it to her hut without getting into more trouble. For she knows there are eyes watching her every move from the shadows, eyes that could belong to the animals of the night or to something else entirely.

She pretends she doesn’t feel their stare. She pretends the cold sheen of sweat that lines her spine is completely natural in this kind of weather, just like the trembling in her limbs is only due to physical exhaustion. She refuses to acknowledge that presence, that unnamed thing that keeps following her through the woods.

When she sees a flickering flame in the distance, her rattling breath halts all of a sudden. There is only one thing that she knows can produce fire such as that. It is so far away that it looks like a dying light in the middle of a tempest, but she knows better ‒recognises that deep, warm colour and knows too well that there should not be any fires like that one alight in the open.

So she walks faster, moves with the last remnants of her strength towards the light. It takes some effort, because her body is the most tired she ever remembers it being, and expectation rolls funnily in her stomach, but finally ‒ _finally!_ ‒ the woods seem to thin until they don’t block the moonlight from above. Just a little longer, and the trees turn into bushes, and the bushes open to let her see a path in the dirt, and the path then leads her to a meadow. It is tiny and secluded and barely fitting of the name, but it is _home_.

“Thank the goddesses, you’re back.”

There is no time for her to get her breathing even before a pair of sturdy arms are encasing her in a hug, constricting and too warm, but void of all ill intention.

“Yeah”, she rasps out, “somehow I wasn’t expecting that, either.”

The man hugging her lets go suddenly and fixes her with a hard stare.

“You know it’s dangerous out there. You should be more careful.”

There is heat coming off in waves from where he touches her, big hands clamped down on her shoulders. It is too hot, even when it comes to him and his unnaturally high body temperature, and she can’t help but wonder.

“Wait. Ace, what in tarnation is that?”

Only then she seems to notice the giant bonfire, preoccupied as she was in the brunet’s embrace. It has been lit in the middle of the clearing; it burns and roars like a fiery pillar towards the night sky. The flames are a deep orange colour, different from any other fire she has ever seen. It also smells distantly of cedarwood, although there is nothing like that feeding the flames. It is not a normal fire, and so it does not behave like one. Because, despite being unrestricted and surrounded by grass, it holds itself as well as if it were tamed.

“That’s your beacon for coming back home, of course!” The cheeky smile he is directing towards her is only made warmer by the shining of the flames.

She supresses a sigh of relief. It is true. If not for Ace’s fiery signal, she might have not found the way back. “Let’s go, then. And don’t misunderstand my gratitude, but you shouldn’t be out of bed.”

Ace rolls his eyes playfully. “I just saved your life and you chide me like some kid-”

She laughs it off and pushes him towards the humble cabin she calls home. At their backs, the burning fire column extinguishes as if it had never been there in the first place. Only a faint burn mark is left on the ground.

Ace keeps going on about something she only partially hears. When he crosses the threshold, bowing his head a little as to not hit it, she stays outside just for a little bit longer. The night is clear and calm. The moon shines over the clearing, bathing it in silver light and soft shadows. But beyond the meadow, not so far away, all light dies at the treeline, casting the world under total darkness.

And, despite not being capable of seeing a single thing, she feels in her bones a presence lurking there, by the forest’s limits. Something sets in the pit of her stomach like a rock, but she does not want to give it a name.

With one final glance back, she enters the hut and closes the door behind her with intention.

.

∞

.

The next day, she wakes up early to make sure all the sigils are in place around the threshold and the windowpanes. The presence can be no longer felt, so she sets up to check on the markings she left long ago on the trees that surround the meadow. They are old, deep scratches in the bark that look like scars covered with dried sap and moss. But they are in place, intact and fully functional. They hum with a faint rumbling at contact with her fingertips, the energy flowing from her to the trees, and back. It is a pleasant feeling.

Satisfied, she goes back to the cabin, much more relaxed than before.

“You know”, starts Ace, already making breakfast, “things like those are why they call you a witch.” He signals to the sigils engraved on the wooden door with an obvious look, but does not comment on his distaste for them. After all, they are designed to keep at bay all magic creatures that harbour contempt. And, even though he has never meant any harm to her, his magical blood still tingles uncomfortably every time he crosses the front door.

That is why he sticks to the inside of the cabin most of the time. That, and the fact that the villagers are scared shitless of him. No matter how many times she tells them that the young man is not dangerous, they just do not listen. They do not seem to care that he has been injured either. They just want him gone.

“I don’t care what they think”, she frowns.

The bacon in the iron pan frizzles, oozing grease and a mouth-watering scent.

“Maybe you should.” Ace does not look at her while talking, a sign that he is, for once, being serious. “They come less and less these days. If you’re not careful, soon they won’t come at all.”

That is, indeed, true. The villagers used to come to her for herbal remedies of all kinds ‒from wart cream to supposedly aphrodisiac perfumes. They also visited when someone was in dire need of a healing hand, for she knows how to set bones back into their sockets and mend broken limbs. Other simply wanted commodities, like the special mix she crafts for an excellent infusion from wild roses and peaches.

She exchanges her services for coin or other things with value as a fair price for her art. And, even if there is no magic in the things she does for the village people, they have always called her a witch. They are too scared to say that to her face, but she knows better.

All in all, things were good enough.

Until Ace came, at least. She had found him in the woods one day, terribly wounded an unconscious. Sha had taken the young man to her cabin, helped him heal. Soon enough she had learnt that he was no ordinary man at all. In fact, he was not even human.

The villagers had taken note of him whenever they came to ask a favour, of his fiery eyes and the bite in his words, as well as his wild temper. Rumours had begun to spread, about the mysterious stranger that lived with the witch near the woods. It had not been until the day he almost set the son of the butcher on fire that they had started to call him a demon. From that point onwards, the visits had started to diminish in number.

She knows better than to blame Ace, though. Being a fire creature is not easy, especially one that has been fatally wounded. Sometimes during the recovery process he had had serious trouble controlling his flames. He had recurrent nightmares, called names in his sleep. Also, he had been very hostile towards her at first. Only when he had started to make progress in healing from the nasty wound in his chest ‒which had almost pierced all the way through him‒ she understood that the lad had gone through some awful things in his life. So, with patience and care, she had managed to trade the scoff in his features for a smile, the hurt for a happy-go-lucky attitude.

It is not his fault that the trade is at a low, no. He is a fine person, actually. It is the villagers, with their superstitions and presumptuous assumptions, that should bear the blame.

The both of them eat their breakfast in quiet companionship. It is unusual that the brunet is this silent, but not unpleasant. Maybe, she thinks, he is still a little thrown off by the villagers issue, or maybe something else completely. For a brief moment, she wonders if he has felt that quiet sentience in the woods the night prior, too, but dismisses it quickly. For the very virtues she is sure he has, Ace is not the subtle type.

It is, indeed, difficult to take him seriously when there is so much grease dripping down his chin and when he downs the fresh milk in giant, noisy gulps. She cannot help but chuckle, and the worries she had at the start of the day vanish immediately.

.

∞

.

It is just like Ace had said. The villagers’ visits grow sparse, and when they do come, it is always with fear and distrust clear in their eyes.

They are wary of the lad, they both know. That is why Ace hides away whenever there is someone calling at her cabin’s door. He hasn’t burnt anyone since that one time, but she doubts that matters much now that the harm is done.

However, they are still uneasy. It does not take very long for her to understand that they are starting to become hostile, too ‒and it is directed to her. Not Ace, not the magic symbols. Her.

It is an inconspicuous thing, at first. It starts with heated glances when they think she is none the wiser. Next time, some old lady comes for a fertility remedy, and the apple basket she gives her as a reward has one rotten fruit at the bottom, smartly hidden from view, and it soon spoils all the others, making them go to waste. Then, a man whose finger she had to amputate spits on her doorstep on his way out, calling her nasty names she tries very hard to forget, but cannot. Later, Ace offers himself to teach the bastard a lesson in chivalry, the freckles on his cheeks burning like embers. She declines, politely but firmly. It is better not to walk straight into their game.

The worst comes when a couple of villagers come to her cabin wailing and pointing fingers, accusing her of killing their only daughter. They manage to explain among screams of rage and curses that the lass died bleeding from the inside, crying for mercy while her vowels pierced through her in never-ending agony. It had been that moon tea she had given her, made to make her monthly blood appear. She knows both facts are unrelated, that even if that kind of herbs can actually be deadly, she did not give the villagers’ daughter enough to cause a poisoning. The most reasonable explanation is that the lass was struck by the piercing abdomen, an uncurable illness that kills as fast as lightning, and messily. But the villagers do not want to hear reason ‒they are consumed by loss, devastating and unadulterated loss, and they turn to anger so they can pull through the void.

There is no comfort that night, only silence. Ace tries, but she prefers it like that, quiet and numb. She is used to being alone, to mourn with the stars as her only witnesses.

.

∞

.

As time passes, her fiery companion’s condition improves greatly. It should not come as a surprise, since he is a preternatural being, but it is still striking. The deep, gruesome carving in his chest has regenerated with unconceivable velocity. Now, it is only scarring tissue, darker than the rest of his skin ‒a permanent reminder of whatever traumatic event that has happened to him. She has asked, of course, but he has never cared to tell her. She figures it is still too fresh of a memory. Too raw.

He insists that she accompanies him the first part of the journey, as a way to say their farewells. She acquiesces, albeit a bit reluctantly. It is the middle of winter, after all, and although it does not usually snow around these parts, the path gets tricky and the cold is dangerous.

“Don’t worry 'bout the cold, lass!” Ace laughs unabashedly. “I am a human bonfire, after all.”

She tries not to let his smile get to her and grumbles about how it is the return journey what troubles her, since she has to go back on her own.

Alone. She does not want to think about it that much. She was supposed to be a lone wolf, always isolated, only reaching to others for undeniable necessities, and nothing else. But, somehow, now the prospect of returning to an empty, cold cabin makes her a tad melancholic. She blames the lad and his shining grin for that, absolutely.

They trek through the silent woods like they were the only living creatures moving under the dark canopy. The air is damp with the perspiration of plants and fungi, the thick tapestry above preventing the humidity to escape towards the sky. It smells like decay, which is, ironically enough, the scent of life.

Fortunately, Ace fills the eerie silence with a constant flow of words in rapid succession. He teases her relentlessly, saying that for a witch, she is too wary of the woods. She defends herself, saying that she is no witch, and then retaliates in kind. The playful banter goes on and on, making her forget about the quietness that is unnatural even for the cold season.

When the sun reaches its peak in the sky ‒or so they presume, for there is no way to know for sure‒ they arrive to the place of their parting.

There is an old shrine erected in the middle of a wild-looking clearing among the fir trees. It is too large for an ancient shrine dedicated to the goddesses of the forest. It takes almost all the space in the clearing. The signs of abandonment, however, are painfully present. Otherwise, it would have been an outstanding temple.

“This is where we go our separate ways.” Ace tends his open hand in the space between them, happy grin a tad duller than usual. “I know I have nothing to repay your kindness-“

She interrupts him with a shake of her head. “It is not necessary. Friends need not pay.”

There is a spark in in his eyes when he hears the term ‘friend’ leave her mouth, and his demeanour lightens again.

“Even so”, he argues, “the custom provides I give you something in return.” He turns towards the looming entrance of the shrine. “This used to be a sacred place for my people, back when… When our father was alive.”

That right there has been the most personal piece of himself he has ever revealed in her presence. Not only that he had a father, but that he has siblings, too, somewhere. Is that where he is going now, back to them? She hopes so, wishes that wherever he is going, he is able to find the inner peace he seems to lack.

“If you ever find yourself in need, don’t hesitate to come here, and you shall find a helping hand.”

He kisses her cheek, warm and honest like a brother would, and the next moment he is gone. Vanished in the moist air as if he had never been there, right next to her.

She remains rooted to the spot, almost frozen now that his warming presence has been replaced by the chilly winter air. The shrine attracts her eyes like a black hole does light, an unnatural pull that twists gravity and compels her to come forth, to get closer, to cross the vacant threshold that hides even gloomier secrets than the forest that surrounds it.

She turns and begins to walk the path that leads back to her cabin, afraid of the invisible power the place holds over her. Why would Ace tell her to come here if she is ever in danger? She feels anything but safe next to the ancient construction.

With a sigh, she shakes her head. It does not matter anymore. She has to focus on the road ahead, least she gets lost again. This time there will be no welcoming fire guiding her safely home.

.

∞

.

One week. One week is all it takes for things to turn awry.

It is difficult to pin down the exact reason. Maybe there are so many that it simply is not possible to single them down to only one. Is it because the villagers have ‒somehow‒ found out that Ace no longer lives with her? Is it because they think she is defenceless? Is it because their patience has finally run empty? She honestly has no idea. All that she knows for sure is that one day the grain supply that feeds the little village goes rotten, and the next a mob o furious people come to her cabin with torches and forks and knives, seeking bloody revenge for an imaginary affront.

They lock her in her own cabin. The sigils she has carefully craved all around the tiny meadow do not prevent their unsolicited entry, for that magic does not work against the evil of human beings.

She is scared. Now, she wishes she had listened to Ace and made some effort to make these people understand that she is not a witch, not a threat. However, deep down, she fears that no pleading could have changed their minds.

They set the cabin on fire with her trapped inside. She knows these flames are not like those of her friend ‒these are vexing and hungry, they lap at the wooden structure and consume everything that had once been hers.

Escape, she needs to escape, or she will be a part of the ashen pile in the middle of the meadow come morning. Just ash and charred bones.

She refuses. Oh, she refuses with an intensity such that it boils in her veins and sets her jaw in a firm line. She squares her shoulders and gathers her resolve, quickly, ignoring the shouts and hollers that come from the outside. They are cheering for her death.

Sooner than expected, the smoke clouds her senses and burns in her lungs. A deep itch scratches at her throat from the inside. Sweat dampens her clothes as she looks for an exit, but everything is dark. A cough hacks her chest. And then another, and another, and then she is not able to stop them.

She does what she can to gather a few things ‒not the ones she would need on her escape, but rather, whatever she can grab on her way to the small window in the storage room at the back of the cabin.

She knows she is not coming back for the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sigh*  
> I know, I know, I should be finishing other projects instead of starting new ones. But I really, really couldn't help it, I swear. This is the story of my life, people.
> 
> As always, thanks for the read and, if you take the time to tell me your opinion, you'll make my day!


	2. Magpies and water

Winter really is an unmerciful season. It takes everything away in its frigid talons: the heat, the food, the greenery, the noise, the energy ‒life. She sees this particularly clearly when she paces through the woods without her coat, covered from head to toe in soot and wearing only one boot. Her right foot is clad in a woolly stocking that so very much does not protect her from the sticks, stones and ice on the forest floor.

She refuses to cry, even when her fingers start to lose sensitivity. Her breath becomes white in front of her own face from the cold temperatures, the humidity causing the chill to reach her bones. She dearly misses Ace, but she des not say it out loud. Does not think about it too much, either, because she fears the feeling of longing for something that cannot be.

There is not much that she can use to help herself. Going back to the village hoping to find mercy would be nothing short of a suicide attempt. Those people have already made their distaste for her evident. What need is there to make things easier for them?

So she goes forward, plunging deeper into the woods.

The only things she could rescue from her now decaying hut are a knife ‒a _kitchen_ knife, small and dull‒, a book on salves and chasms, her purse and a pencil. Looking back on it, she wants to hit herself for her carelessness. Apart from the knife ‒which _was not_ the best she could have asked for, either‒ all those things are completely useless to her at the moment. She had been on a hurry, yes, and those things had been _right there_ , and she had just blindingly grabbed for them, okay, and there had been a fire threatening her life, but still.

She groans. At least in her purse there is some forgotten dry meat and a handful of hazelnuts. There is other stuff, too, but nothing too important. At least, she thinks, the book would make for good fire-feeder.

But not yet. As much as her feet hurt and her teeth clatter, she has to find cover first. A nice, dry place that shields her from the moist air and wet ground, something like-

Like that place his freckled friend had shown her the day they took separate paths.

Se moves north. It is already dawn, so it is easy to locate herself one she gets a glimpse of the sky. There are clouds above, but the clarity coming from the east makes it simple enough. She checks how the moss grows on the trees that she passes, just to make sure she is walking in the right direction.

At some point in her journey, a magpie craws overhead, among the tree branches. It sounds somewhat similar to the grumbling noise that her empty stomach makes, or that could be her mind making up things. It is funny, she thinks, and greets the bird back. Another one answers somewhere close.

There is an old nursery rhyme about magpies and jackdaws and crows, about good and bad luck. The launderers by the river used to sing it when she was a little kid.

_One for sorrow_

_Two for mirth_

_Three for a funeral_

_Four for a birth_

_Five for heaven_

_Six for hell_

_Seven for the devil, his own self_

If she believed in crones’ tales, then she would be thoroughly screwed, because no more than six of the damned birds can be seen.

Nightfall surprises her while climbing the rough path to where the shrine is hidden among the trees. She stumbles the final steps towards the entrance, and perhaps it is due to the darkness that now engulfs everything, but the old place seems even more haunting than the last time she saw it.

She creeps through the main entrance like a thief, dirty and hungry and exhausted. She cannot see it, but her steps on the wooden floor leave trails in the thick sheen of dust that has been unperturbed for years until now. The air inside is stale, humid and rancid like the inside of a mountain cave.

But, as unwelcoming as the place is, she does not find it in herself to care, for she is at her very limit. With a dull impact she lets her body fall limply on the floor, too tires to even think about anything that it not sleeping

Everywhere is dark.

The temperature outside falls.

Her eyelids close, and then she is no more.

.

∞

.

She dreams about magpies, about feather of black and white and blue. She dreams about omens and dark words of foreboding. When she rises from her slumber with a start, the feeling of sorrow takes its sweet time to fade back to the realm of dreams.

There are several reasons why she is startled as soon as she opens her eyes to the morning light. First, there is a blanket on her shoulders ‒one that she obviously hadn’t been there the night prior, mind you. Second, her things have been rummaged through, the contents of her bag scattered on the floor. There is nothing broken or missing, but the notion that something has searched her in her sleep is taunting. Third, there is a pile of food by her head. It is nothing fancy, just some dried apples, a bowl with clear water and nuts. Fourth, whoever ‒or whatever‒ that has bothered to search her things and leave her something to fill her stomach, had managed to do so without leaving a single footprint behind. The only marks that can be seen on the dusty floor belong to her own two feet.

Of course, she feels uneasy. A strange presence has managed to get close enough to her as to slit her throat open. If its intentions hadn’t been benign or simply curious, she might have woken up dead.

But that is the matter: The creature has been nice enough to feed her. That, in itself, should bring her some reprieve.

While she has her meagre but welcome breakfast, she muses over these questions. After, she makes up her mind and stands with resolution.

Friend or foe, some cautions will not do her wrong. The morning is thus spent carving sigils of protection around the small clearing and the shrine’s entrance. A part of her mind whispers, unwelcome, against the futility of such actions, for the last time she had needed protection, the magic symbols provided none. But she draws them nonetheless, trusting their nature.

Night comes far too early for her liking, so she retreats back into the temple. Sleep evades her for a good while, for she is too laden with mistrust to give herself to the sweet numbness. Outside, the creatures of the night stir to life one by one. The mighty wolf howls in the far distance. The wise owl hooters nearby in the dark canopy. The critter that has foregone hibernation creeps through the humid forest underbrush. Here, a rumble. There, a snap. The woods sure are plagued with life even in the dead of night.

She fights with her own body until her eyelids burn with the need to close themselves. Her head wobbles, and when she finally succumbs to sleep, she does not even notice.

That second night, she does not dream. But what she does is feel a pair of eyes, blue like the deep summer sky, that bore into the recesses of her unconscious mind.

.

∞

.

For the next two days, the routine repeats itself almost down to the last letter. She wakes up alone, but surrounded by the evidence of unwanted company sometime during the previous night. The creature leaves her stuff alone now, except for the worn book on salves that she carries. She believes, by the way the pages are folded and marked, that it has some degree of intelligence. Maybe it does not understand the words, but the depictions of plants might have some appeal to it.

There is food, also. Always some kind of dried fruit, water, and an assortment of berries, roots or nuts. It is forest food, nothing too elaborate or too tasty, but something she could not be any more grateful for, even if it is scarce. But as they use to say, _beggars can’t be choosers_ , so it is fine, really. More than just fine.

Again, no evidence on the dusty floor or the ground surrounding the shrine. No footprints, or marks, or hairs, or feathers. Simply nothing. This leads her to wonder if ‘it’ is some kind of apparition, a ghost or a banshee or another haunting presence of the sort. She ends up dismissing the idea. The food is real, and the water is freshly collected every day. An incorporeal being would not be able to do something like that.

Moved by curiosity, she tries to figure out what kind of guardian spirit is the shrine devoted to. Hours are spent trying to decipher the old runes engraved in the commemorative stone before the entrance, and in the wooden pillars inside and outside the building. Nothing clear comes from the scrutiny, except that the goddesses of the forest granted their power to an exceptional being of great strength and wisdom. It could have been a giant, perhaps, for the translation is ambiguous at best. There’s another rune that could be understood as male, father, patriarch, or maybe even _whale_ ‒which would absolutely make no sense at all. It depends on whether that one line is a scratch on the rock or an actual rune. The only idea she gets out of her efforts is that, whatever it was, had been an exceptional being of ancient power and great prowess. One of the goddesses’ own favourites, no doubt. ‘Had’, in past tense, because it is obvious that whatever guardian spirit was dedicated to this place in remote times has long moved on.

Many times she asks herself if Ace knows what is going on with this place. Did he know when he sent her here for help? Does he know about the spirit-thing that takes care of her needs, that it is not the same this shrine was originally built for?

Is he happy wherever he is now? Perhaps the mysterious creature could tell her. But she has to find a way to communicate with it, first.

During daylight, its presence cannot be felt. It could be a creature of the night, or simply wander to some other place when it is done looking after her.

Time goes on slowly. She picks some herbs around the clearing. Once, she spots a lonely fox that runs away the moment it catches her smell in the air, one that does not belong in the forest, and so the animal gets scared. Magpies appear again, circling the air above her minuscule haven.

The fourth morning, she deems she has had enough of idly walking around. She finds an offering of herbs along the usual pile of food, some mint stems and willow bark and leaves. They smell wonderfully. The fresh aroma of the mint leaves only serves to remind her of how utterly, impossibly filthy she is. She has not bathed or washed her teeth in four or five days, and she has undergone a fire and a run through the woods since the last time she could afford to use water to clean her body. On top of that, she has been sleeping on the floor in tattered clothes, and her hair is a tangled mess ‒that may or may not have some twigs and leaves woven into it. She cringes at the thought of combing through the tangles.

It does not take much pondering for her to decide to leave the clearing in search for a source of water. When crossing the barrier of sigils, she feels a shiver run down her spine, but it has no reason to be. It is broad daylight ‒she should be fine as long as she in mindful of her surroundings and returns before night-time.

These parts are not familiar to her, but she adamantly begins to trek in the opposite direction to where the village is, nevertheless. Not in a thousand years does she intend to go near it again.

It takes her a good couple of hours, but finally she hears the clear sound of water running. There is a stream that moves fast through the forest. It skips down a great boulder, forming some waterfall of sorts, not much taller than she is standing, and when the water touches the ground again, it forms a tiny pool, enough to get to her waist at the deepest end.

The sound of the clear liquid trickling down the rocky surface maker her parched throat throb painfully, and so, she does not think twice when she throws herself at the pond and drinks from it with a vengeance. She plunges her face, mouth first, into the water and ‒ _oh_ ‒ the sheer coolness of it is delicious. Gulping it down as if it was air, soon her stomach if round and full with the liquid goodness. She does not remember the last time she has ever felt this thirsty, nor so thoroughly satisfied.

But she does not stop herself at that. Once her thirst has been quenched, she submerges her whole face into the water. Then, her skin is rubbed until it is raw and tender, and somehow presentable again. The water comes back dirty from all the soot and sweat and dirt on her. She feels relieved.

Her neck and forearms follow. Then, she uses the stems of mint she has brought with her to wash the inside of her mouth. She chews on them, tasting the fresh flavour, then she uses her fingers to rub at her teeth and tongue. When she is satisfied with the outcome, she rinses her mouth, and the water feels so heavenly cold it is as if it burns the insides of her cheeks.

The simple act of cleaning herself brings some strange peace with it. It feels almost cathartic, taking the unwanted filth away from one’s body. Her clothes are beyond repair, but parading around in torn _and_ stained skirts does not sound appealing. But damn, it is freezing cold. Just the droplets in her hair and hands feel like tiny needles of ice on her skin. It is not the wisest idea to shed her clothing and just stand in the nude while waiting for them to dry in the open air. She does not mind the birds and mice getting an eyeful, but rather fears she might freeze away.

That is more than valid a point, but by the goddesses, has she ever stunk this badly before? It is no surprise that the wandering fox had run away from her.

Despite this little internal debate, her mind is at ease. Very much so, so she fails to notice how the woods have turned eerily quiet in the span of an instant. No rustling of leaves. Were it not for the splatter of water on water, the silence would have been deafening.

At least, until another sound came rumbling from the depths of the earth, one that split the quietness cleanly in two its its sharp and menacing edge. A sound like she has never heard before, like a roaring beast and a piercing darkness and a rumbling pit of death and an angry, consuming inferno. It is all of that, and more.

She turns hastily, water splashing at her feet, and there it is. A monster the likes of which she has never seen before. Its fur is pitch black like the Void itself. It seems to catch the light around it and trap it in its dark tendrils. It looks not unlike a wolf; it is anything but. Its maws are open and rimmed with jagged teeth, thick saliva dripping onto the ground. Its red, glimmering eyes are fixed solely on her, and if it were possible, she could have sworn that it looks at her and _smiles_.

There is no air in her lungs to scream.

The beast plunges, and there is nothing she can do to protect herself from its furious attack other than to cross her arms in front of her trembling form. The monster bites her right forearm, and this time ‒oh, _this time_ she does scream.

They tumble down from the force of the impact. Under her body, the water from the pond is sharply cold, and a violent shiver racks her back. Whether it is due to the shocking cold, or fear, or pain, that is extremely difficult to tell. Most probably, it is from a mixture of all three.

The creature does not relent. It seems to thrive on her agony and the strong, metallic taste of her blood. If she lets it, the monster will mangle her to unrecognisable bits.

Before she can think, however, her body moves on its own. Her left hand forms a protective rune, and the next moment the weight that is crushing her disappears, as well as the overwhelming pressure clamped on her forearm. Something stinks like burnt flesh, and it is a pungent smell. The beast is no more, but the thick veil of hatred that it leaves behind in its retreat speaks of dark promises.

It will be back. It is written in the air under the asphyxiating canopy of the woods.

She tumbles, more than walks, back to the shrine. Now she knows she should not have abandoned its strange, reluctant protection.

Her forearm throbs like it has got a heart of its own. The flesh is teared and the blood just will not stop flowing from the gaping holes caused by those frightening teeth. It hurts, hurts, _hurts_ like nothing else.

The familiar shape of the shrine comes into view, but the struggle is far from over. Since she is on her own, she knows that the moment the blood loss gets to her head, things are over.

So she works fast.

Kneeling on the wooden floor, she tears her skirts to make a bandage. The cloth is filthy, but its is everything she has. Her blood is staining the sacred ground beneath her. If she survives, she will need to make an offering to the spirits to atone for this offence.

She needs water. She needs herbs. She needs a needle and thread, a fire, and so many other things that are impossible to get here. Oh, if only she were back in her cabin… But that is not to be, for her cabin has been burnt to the ground and all her things have gone to hell with it. She is a healer that cannot heal. The irony leaves an acrid taste on her tongue.

Her vision is hazy at the edges and her head floats too high in the air, far above the shrine and her aching body and everything that is known to her.

She is going to die here.

That is the last thought she can conjure up in her half-gone mind before her conscience is swallowed by the darkness of the unknown.

.

∞

.

Death is strange.

It is nothing like she has ever imagined, not even in her wildest dreams. She thought that, maybe, dying in itself would be painful, just like being born was. And then, after crossing the threshold between worlds, her essence would be surrounded by eternal numbness. A place in which just be, free from the burdens and sufferings of the material existence.

But that would be asking too much, would it not?

There is no serene numbness at all, only panful confusion. A delirious chaos of sensation with no room left for a rational mind. Absolutely nothing makes sense.

She hears a soothing voice, deep and beautiful like no other, but it is always accompanied by blinding agony, stemming from her right arm and flowing everywhere like molten heat.

The next moment, her body is encased in a wonderful warmth, but her bones ache with cold. There is a black melody calling her, threatening to pull her under the depths of the Void. She does not want to go, but the incessant tug is persistent.

Blue flames surround her, but she does not burn away like it was to be expected. Instead, a calmness like she has never felt embraces her soul, and the dark thing seems to reel and disappear, taking with it all of its murderous intents.

She feels at home in this place inside her mind, or maybe she is in another plane of existence entirely. Who cares? All that matters is that the pain is gone, and now she can merrily stop struggling and let herself go.

So she does just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems like we have to wait a little bit longer... Whoops.


	3. Herbs and earth

The very first thing she notices when she emerges from the thick veil of darkness is warmth.

She has a sudden recalling of the old, dust-covered floor, of humid air and mouldy odour. The memory of the cold is vivid in her mind ‒the icy water’s coldness, her damp clothes in the winter air, the chill creeping through her numb limbs as the blood leaves her body…

She cannot sense any of those currently. There is only warmth surrounding her, and it feels comfortable as no other. Soft. There is a softness too. It is better than her worn clothing, thicker than her old travel cloak, and very, very nice to the touch. Alluring, the way it encases her like a cocoon and makes her want to just sink into it and sleep away the days.

An involuntary groan escapes her throat then, letting a mouthful of air fill her lungs right after. A musky scent invades her nostrils, deep and rich, so unlike the things she is used to, the things of the woods ‒those, she has grown so accustomed to that she barely notices them anymore. This smell is completely different. It is so intense that it vanishes anything else and overpowers her other senses momentarily. It is something akin to pinewood burning in a bonfire, and fertile earth, with ‒maybe‒ a touch of mint barely present. Those are normal enough, but there is something else, something she cannot quite identify.

Awareness comes to her in figments. First, the foretold warmth; then, the smell. Suddenly, her hearing seems to come back to her at once. There is a rustling somewhere near. Also, the unmistakable sound of a fire creaking. A fire she very much does not remember starting, and cannot be the work of any forest animal.

Uncertainty begins to flourish in her, but she forces herself to stay calm. It seems obvious there is something ‒someone?‒ else with her. Fortunately, whoever has started the bonfire has not had the need to harm her yet.

Slowing her breathing as to feign sleep, she tries to open her eyes slowly ‒only to find that her lids have been open for a while. She just had not realised because of how dark it is. But of so, where is the fire? Should it not be some light in here?

Where is _here_ , anyway?

When it clicks, she feels embarrassment wash over her like a heat wave. The warmth, the smell, the darkness ‒she Is under a pile of furs, in what is, most likely, some sort of bedding. How she has not noticed before is beyond herself, really.

Shaming herself is a task better left for later, though.

With utmost care, she starts to feel around the furs to find where they end. They certainly are fine quality, judging by the texture. Her fingertips finally find the edge of the furs, and she cannot help but hold her breath. The air outside the covers is warm, too, but not nearly as stuffy. She is indoors, no doubt about that. But where, exactly?

As quietly as she is able to, she ventures a quick peek from under the furs. A golden glow lights up a rocky wall. The floor has the same texture as the wall, so different from the old shrine’s. There are more furs scattered across, and a medium-sized bonfire in a pit some feet away from where she lays. But what really startles her is the figure crouching by the fire, stirring the flames.

She instantly ducks under her cover again.

So, she is not alone. Slowly, she rakes her brains trying to remember, to recall any flimsy detail that can explain what kind of predicament she has gotten herself into this time around. At first, memories elude her, but when she is thinking so intently her head might just implode form the effort, they crush down on her like a waterfall, unstoppable and relentless on their assault.

The trek through the woods, the pool, the frigid water, the taste and smell of mint stems, the dread, the terror of the attack. The excruciating pain of open wounds, the blood. Everything after that is so blurred that she cannot take apart reality from dream or feverish hallucination.

But, just one moment ‒ _the wounds_. She had been so mind-numbingly comfortable that she had completely forgone the notion that her body had been terribly wounded and in need of immediate care.

Or… maybe not? Her forearm seems to be wrapped in some sort of rough linen. It is tight, just short of too much, and her flesh under the bandage hurts like she had affronted the goddesses themselves personally, and ‒ _fuck_. It hurts like an awful bitch, but not nearly as much as she guesses it should.

However, she cannot keep hiding forever. She must make a decision concerning her current state, her immediate future, and the unknown being with unknown purposes sitting by the fire.

.

∞

.

On his part, the figure by the fire was having a great time. Honestly, he has not had this much trouble trying to keep calm and appear serene since the Old Days, when Father was still alive and all of His sins spent the days and nights frolicking without a care in the woods. The same woods that are now the most dangerous place in the continent, rotten with malice and despicable things lurking just out of sight.

The figure sighs, trying not to disturb the recently awoken guest that’s fumbling under his covers. Foul times, indeed, when a frail human can be so awfully mauled while under the protection of Father’s shrine. True, she should not have left the clearing, but honestly, it had only been a matter of time before necessity or boredom would lure her away from the old sacred grounds. He just wishes she would have given him one or two days more ..that way, he would have confronted the woman about her reasons to be there.

In truth, he should have done that sooner. But centuries of living in isolation from the human world have made him into some kind of hermit. He had debated about the convenience of showing himself in front of the girl, but now he just regrets not having come to her from the start. So much pain could have been avoided.

It is hard, so very hard, to mute the snort of laughter that is trying to scape him when he catches sight of the tiny hand crawling from under the furs. He figures she is attempting to be subtle, but she fails in such an obnoxious way that he feels a tingling on his cheeks, and is that not odd? He is far too old to be experiencing this kind of childish thrill.

When a timid head surrounded by a wild mane of hair partially emerges from under the covers, he decides to play along and directs his attention towards the flames burning in the pit. In his peripheral vision he still watches her while she takes in her surroundings and, finally, lands her curious eyes on him.

She retracts almost instantly, and he wishes, for the umpteenth time, that his brothers would be here with him so as not to hoard all the fun for himself. Briefly, he thinks he should feel a little ashamed. After all, she must be scared, confused and disoriented. When he found her, wanting to check on her like he did almost every day since she arrived, he had found her on the brink of death. Feverish, cold to the touch, thrashing on the floor. He had not been heartless enough to let her die in Father’s shrine, ill and alone, so he had taken her in spite of the risks.

She is still hidden, quiet as a corpse ‒alright, bad choice of words. Marco assumes she is not going to get out for now, so maybe it is best to leave her be, give her a bit of privacy. He gets up as silently as he is able to and starts walking towards the exit.

The cave where he lives is not directly connected to the outside. Instead, he has to take a turn and walk through a short tunnel, maybe twenty steps in total. From the outside, his refuge is well hidden. In the mountainside, lost among the fir trees and days away from human lands, it is exactly as solitary as it seems, bit at least it is safe.

Or, well ‒it used to be.

When Father was alive, everything was different. From the highest mountaintop up north to the deepest swamp in the south, all things and creatures where under His protection. It was His land, His kingdom, and animals and spirits and all sort of beings where His children alike. The woods were once a beautiful, peaceful place.

But then, Father had been betrayed. Gruesomely wounded by the hands of the same spirit that He trusted and called son. Ultimately, Father had died because of his terrible wounds. The goddesses had mourned that day, along with all his brothers. And after that, things had not stopped going downhill. Marco would never forget the face of his fallen brother, the traitor, the hurt he had caused his family.

The woods had started to die. It was a slow process that lasted many lives of men, but never ceased. Like a deadly illness, it spreads from the roots of trees to the still waters of ponds and lakes. The goddesses have turned voiceless, and the air has since grown gloomier, heavier and heavier with each passing day.

It is, no doubt, the doing of the evil spirit that had once been their brother, their own blood. Now, it roams, the forest heralding death, poisoning all living things with its hatred. Humans have started to deplete the woods, too, chopping trees and starting bushfires indiscriminately. Always killing, never giving life.

Maybe those two occurrences are unrelated, maybe they are not. But what Marco does know is that, if everything keeps going like this, it will mean their end.

Ace had thought the same, the fiery hothead. He had gone and taken matter on his own hands, hunted down the beast to put an end to it all. But it was easier said than done, since Father’s clan was then weak and dispersed. After His death, many had decided to leave for more peaceful lands, and Marco really cannot blame them for that choice. However, that meant that Ace had to fight on his own. As powerful as his fire was, it had been a reckless call at best. Marco had begged his brother not to go, tries to talk him out of it, and when reason had failed, he had resorted to harsh words. He later came to regret that, for in the morning after Ace was gone and he was left all alone for the first time in centuries.

He is the caretaker of Father’s shrine now. It is a dull task, but one that needed to be done. He would rather die than let the last remnants of His greatness waste away with time. The temple is the last of Him and His pride, and Marco knows He would not want it to rot in the heart of the woodlands.

In a way, this is Marco paying his tribute.

And then, out of nowhere, a mortal woman reeking of magic comes to a place that should have been long forgotten to her kind, filthy and so sad it had been painful to watch. At first, he had been scandalised. How dared she desecrate a sacred place with her presence? Did she not know its importance, its value? Quickly, however, his indignation had subsided. It had been just so clear that she did not have anywhere ‒or anyone‒ else. So, he had taken to help her in little ways, even though humans are not usually worth the trust. With the days, her presence had grown tolerable. Even after she had inconsiderately engraved her sigils of protection everywhere.

Marco still cringes recalling that episode.

As he wanders among the trees on his usual patrol, he thinks about that same woman. The meaning of her wounds is unknown ‒and, quite frankly, worrying‒, but he assumes that can be cleared now that she is awake and he has already been exposed.

‘ _Well’_ , a tiny part of his mind provides, ‘ _at least I’m not alone anymore_.’

.

∞

.

The stranger has left her alone.

That fact keeps playing on repeat inside her head, over and over again. She is part incredulous, part rejoiced, and part suspecting. Are they really that uncaring? Is it a trap? Or do they trust her not to run away?

It looks like a riddle. One she has not the patience to solve, though.

She waits a prudential amount of time, waiting to see of her captor/savior returns. It is hard to say how long she stays there, unmoving, but when unsteadiness beats patience, she acts.

She jumps from under the pile of furs and into the stone floor. It is oddly smooth, but she does not linger. Quickly, she checks her clothes. They had been torn before from the attack, but now her entire arm is bare from the shoulder, the sleeve ripped so the stranger or other person could patch her up. She has bandages crawling from her wrist to the middle of her upper arm. It is going to be cold outside.

Gathering her courage, she rans clumsily towards what looks like the only exit. There is a tunnel, and briefly she considers if she should take the chance or not. But then she remembers time is still running, and so does she.

The light of day blinds her for a fleeting moment. The sting in her eyes is annoying, so much that it is made evident how long she has been unconscious. And her limbs feel clumsy, unused. Now she feels really glad that the stranger has left, because it would otherwise be a pathetic chase on her part. Bloody hell.

Outside, she confirms what she already knew. She has been in a cave near the mountains. There are many fir trees up here, covering the rocky entrance, but there is more open space than down in the core of the forest. The air is fresher, too, so much that she cannot help but to stop for a moment and have herself a lungful.

Now, she has to admit she has a problem. Intuitively, she knows she is up north. However, she lacks the slightest idea about how to go back to the shrine. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Simply walking south-ish could get her even more lost than she currently is.

“Alright, let’s keep a level head.” Yes, she does have the habit of talking out loud when distressed. “If I go south, there’s a chance of finding a human settlement. That might not be the smartest choice, but if I go…”, she quickly takes a look around, “literally anywhere else, there is no guarantee of where I will find myself. So…”

There is no point in debating further. South it is.

When she begins the descent, though, her foot catches on a loose stone and she trips, sliding ungracefully to the end of the slope. The Fates, it seems, are getting a good laugh out of her misfortunes.

And so it continues to be. She trips and hits herself and gets up in a never-ending cycle while she pitifully advances. Spiky bushes catch her knees and low branches scratch her face. The final straw arrives when she angrily throws a loose root against the log of a tree and it bounces off, so she must duck to avoid it.

“I have to give it to you, though. Perseverance goes a long way ~yoi.”

Bewildered, she looks everywhere in search of the voice that spoke. It sounds indistinctively masculine, so she knows she is not talking to herself because of dehydration.

“Who’s there?”

“Didn’t expect to find you here, you know. Were you that uncomfortable that you had to leave ~yoi?”

That is a strange speaking pattern if she has ever heard one. Could he be mocking her?

“I’m not really in the mood for spirits’ wordplay, riddles, or whatever this is. Come forth or leave, I’m warning you.”

The voice laughs.

“Sorry, sorry. It is clear you are a little wound up ~yoi. Though I must say, I’m not hiding.”

“Not… hiding?”

But she still cannot see anyone next to her. Maybe whoever is talking to her is a gnome, and that is why she… Crap, there is nothing on the floor, either.

“Try the other way around.”

Honest to his word, there he is. A grown man, middle aged, bogger than most for what she gathers, and perched on a tree branch as if he were a damned bird.

It is, by far, the most bizarre scene she has ever witnessed. And she has had her fill of weird sightings.

“Don’t look so surprised ~yoi. You’re making me feel bad.” He laughs nervously and rubs his neck as if to make his point.

She shuts her mouth closed, only then realizing that it has been wide open with amazement.

“How did you get up there?”, she dumbly asks, a little irked about the fact that the branch stands several feet from the ground.

As if only acknowledging now where he is, the man takes a leap down without any sort of care, and lands on his own two feet as if he were weightless.

“Are you sure you’re alright? You don’t look too good ~yoi.”

She supposes she does not. But she is tired and cold and all kinds of hungry, so she does not care that much, honestly. Silence ensues. The strange man appears unimpressed, but he shuffles a bit where he stands, close enough to touch her if he wanted.

“So…”, she awkwardly starts, “I reckon you’re the one that…” She points over her back to the general direction of the hill.

“The man that lives in a cave? That would be me ~yoi.” His posture is utterly relaxed, hands in his pockets and heavily lidded eyes. He even has a slight tilt to his mouth that makes her think he is trying to hide a full-fledged smile and failing. It is stupid to believe so, but maybe this man is not really a danger. At least, not right now.

“I did not mean it as a disrespect. Your bed is nice.” If she had been any less exhausted, she could have burned pink at the unintended inuendo. But playing the fool is safer sometimes, so she does just that.

His grin only widens, but he lets it be. In a way, he almost reminds her of Ace.

Ace. The shrine. What happened there? She remembers getting to it, but not leaving nor what state the place was left in. Which, in fact, brings the next question: who is the man standing opposite her?

“Yes, I see you have questions a-plenty ~yoi. But you honestly look like you could lay down some more. Why don’t you come back with me?”

Her gaze hardens. She is not entirely surprised he seems to have a strong intuition, but that only refutes her suspicions ‒that the blond man is not, in fact, a man.

“What kind of spirit are you? Are you harmless, or evil? Answer me.”

He tenses at her tone of voice. “Can you really not tell?”

“I’ll have you know, I can defend myself. You are not the first of your kind I have dealt with.”

“I can see that”, he whispers, and his gaze lingers on her bandaged arm. She clutches it as if the mere recollection opens her wounds all over again. “Look, girl, I know I can’t really convince you. But I saw you at the shrine, almost bled to death, so I couldn’t exactly ask for your permission ~yoi. You are free to go, of course, if that is what you really want.”

With that, he turns and starts walking back towards the hidden cave. Before his tall figure can get lost among the trees, she cries out.

“How did you find me there?” The man turns, a neutral look etched to his features. He waits until she pieces it together. “The sigils would have forbidden entry to anything ill-willed. So you came in and helped me, assuming you’re telling the truth. But…” She chews on her bottom lip, suddenly insecure. “Could it be… You’re the one that has been helping me?”

He keeps quiet still, but he approaches her again. Sights on the ground, he mutters, “The sigils wouldn’t have been useful if your life energy had dwindled a little more than it already had, but… Yes, it is as you said ~yoi.”

Trying not to pierce him ‒too much‒ with her stare, he ponders it for a while. Then she remembers the mint stems and all the nice things he had supposedly done for her, and reaches a conclusion.

“I’ll come with.”

He moves his head to the side, and again there is that good-natured smile. Open and honest, and maybe just a tad mischievous. It is nothing like Ace’s stupidly big grin, but there is an undeniable quality to it that just obliges her to think of her friend.

.

∞

.

The first time she had been in the cave, there had been no time for looking around. Now, as she stands on its centre, the situation is completely different. She lets her curiosity roam free.

It is big enough for one person, barely for two, but it looks comfortable, nonetheless. It is accommodating and has everything needed for a living, but that is all. There are no excesses, no luxury ‒except, maybe, apart from the bed. There is a firepit in the middle of the cave, roaring with a lively fire. A pot has been placed over it, casting a hearty, delicious smell over the small space. Her mouth waters and her stomach makes embarrassing noises. Of course, her host notices this with a knowing grin.

The bed is almost ridiculously big, compared with all the other sparse furniture, and nothing like the humble cot she used to have back in her hut ‒but, the again, so is its owner. He is, easily, the tallest man she has ever seen, so of course his bed would have been made to fit his frame. She knows first-hand how warm and soft are the furs covering the mattress. They are kind of dreamy, if she were to be honest.

There are, also, some shelves carved into the rocky walls. A sturdy coffer lays next to the gigantic bed, and a smaller one does the same next to the opposite wall. A resistant worktable, obviously made from the remnants of a fallen tree, is lined near the entrance. Two benches, similar in appearance to the ruddy table. And all over the place there are many flasks and satchels and tools she is very familiar with.

“Are you… Could you be a herbalist?”, she asks, not just a little surprised.

The man lifts his gaze from whatever is stirring in the pot. His eyes look deceptively bored, but she knows better by the glint in them. “Mm? Oh, that.” He nods, acknowledging the rather impressive collection on the table and shelves. “I’ve always had an inclination towards medicine. Back when we were many, the others would come to me for all kinds of remedies. Even some humans, from time to time, although that was a very rare occurrence.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s just me.”

He does not look like he has anything left to say, but her mouth is already working without her permission.

“You mean… There were many other like you here?” A pause, but he does not answer. “Would you happen to be familiar with a certain firespitter with too big a gut and too little prudence?”

“Do you know Ace?” Ah, now she had his undivided attention, indeed. “How? When?”

“I helped him. A moon ago or so, I believe, we parted ways. I cured his wounds, but my world was not his own, and so he had to leave.”

“So, that means he is alive. I’m so very glad.” His eyes, which she just now notices are a deep shade of blue, glaze over with fond memories.

“He was the one to show me the shrine. He said I could go there if I was ever in need.” With that, she is trying to convey that she had not come to the temple uninvited. It is something that has been bothering her from the very beginning: the feeling of being an intruder. Now that she has explained herself, she hopes this man has no qualm with her presence.

“You really are telling me that he went by and didn’t even bother to leave me a message?” It was a rhetorical question, of course, but he still sounded incredulous. Then, out of nowhere, the man snorted very inelegantly. “Figures ~yoi, the nerve of that boy. Idiot.”

Something in the way he takes offense in that makes her throat bubbly with laughter, and before she knows it, she is cackling away like a madwoman. It is, probably, the product of weeks of tension and uncertainty unveiling at the first chance, but whatever. He looks at her like she’s gone completely nuts, utterly baffled. But then he is laughing along with her, so everything seems to be just fine.

“I guess I should have known”, he later says over a bowl of stew. The laughing fit had been intense, but the hunger had been more powerful. She is already on her third helping. “Ace has always had a strong drive towards magical beings, so it shouldn’t be a surprise that he ended up finding you ~yoi.”

A drop of the broth dribbles down her chin. She wipes it with the only sleeve she has left. It is a little gross, but it is not as if there are a lot of napkins laying around, waiting for her to use them.

“Oh, well. I found him, though, not the other way around.” What state she found him in, she does not tell. It those two were as close as it seems, the blond might not want to know. “And I’m not magical in any account. I study herbs and poultices and maybe know a magic symbol or two… For protection. But I am not… really magical, myself.”

When he speaks next, it is with a small hint of disappointment. “You’re not a witch, then?”

She splutters, almost chocking on her food. “A ‒ _cough_ ‒ a ploughing _witch_!? No way in damnation!”

“Well, you sure curse like one.”

If indignation had a sound, it would be the one of her biting her own tongue.

“I am not! I’m human. A plain, simple and boring human woman that happens to love knowledge and helping the ill. If that makes me a goddesses-damned witch, the so be it, but I have no magical blood and I sure as all the cursed fucks don’t deserve to die burning for it!”

When she finishes her tirade, she feels suddenly empty. All the fury and pain that she has kept bottled inside has come roaring to the surface, unchecked, and now she is a little ashamed of herself.

“Of course not. Not in the slightest ~yoi. Forgive me, I should have not pried.”

The man sounds genuinely appalled. He has saved her life, tended to her wounds. For crying out loud, he is feeding her right now. His only fault has been to ask an ill-timed question in good faith. And what has she done to repay him? Scream at him like a lunatic would, that is what.

“Don’t be sorry. I overreacted. The stew is really good.”

She feels heavy, and it is only partially due to the guilt she is feeling. This is the first time in days she has eaten a proper meal, and now her body just ants to give in to slumber and sleep for a good handful of hours.

She must have dozed off momentarily, because the next thing she knows is that she is being lifted and placed on the bed. She wants to protest, say that it is his bed and that she can sleep on the floor. That he has done too much for her sake already. But he hushes her before she really can get the words out properly. However, she manages a mumble before completely loosing her battle against sleep.

He does not understand, so he asks her to repeat it.

“My name. Yours?”

Right then and there, Marco realises he has not told her his name. He wants to hit his head against the wall for being so terribly inconsiderate. If Father were still alive, He would have been very disappointed that His son had so easily forgotten the old customs.

“Marco. It’s Marco ~yoi. It’s a pleasure to meet you properly, at least.”

“Marco”, she happily sighs, now more than half asleep. Unconsciously, she burrows her face in the heavenly softness of the bed, her breathing becoming deep and regular.

For once, she does not dream, at all. But there is a warms in her chest that accompanies her for the rest of her slumber, and it is everything she could ever ask for, and then some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! This is the longest chapter yet. Had to add another one to accommodate the story better.  
> As always, thanks so much for bearing with me and my tardiness!


	4. Curses and air

The human girl is certainly not quite what he had imagined.

After she sleeps the rest of the day and the whole night, she awakes come morning with a warm smile painted on her face. Also, Marco suspects, she has absolutely no recollection of the day prior, for when her sleepy eyes land on him, she visibly flinches. But then realisation must hit her, because a rosy tone tints her cheeks.

He tries not to let her know how utterly amusing he finds the display.

As far as humans go, she is quite harmless. No to mean she would not pose a threat if needed, but more like she has a calm, peaceful aura surrounding her that lets him know she does not mean bad news at all. Rather the opposite, if he had to guess.

Marco had not acknowledged how much he had been starved of regular contact with another sentient being until he surprised himself trying to touch her. It had not been a filthy thing, nor disrespectful in the least, as he reckoned some of his brothers would have done in his place. His unconscious mind had only intended for an innocent touch on the shoulder, a light squeeze as to ascertain that she was alive and well and _there_.

But he had ‒for better or for worse‒ caught himself in time, knowing that she probably would have found it weird, even uncomfortable.

From that moment on, he has been more careful about the way he carries himself around the girl.

She had not lied to him when she had said that she loved knowledge. Her notions about healing almost rivalled his own, and he certainly was no rookie. That, paired with some concoctions and remedies used by her people, which he had neve heard of in his long existence, makes her a more that suitable conversation partner.

Some of the mixes and cures she tells him about sound downright idiotic to Marco, like the dust from the teeth of male deer, that supposedly warranted virility to a man’s member for as long as the user desired. Others were just ridiculous, like that one snake which bite on the mouth compelled the victim to always tell the truth.

The girl laughs with him while she explains some of the most extravagant believes and superstitions of the menfolk. However, there are some that he finds extremely useful and worth studying more in depth.

They talk for hours about herbs and trees and how to collect from their gifts as to make the best concoction.

It is something new to him, to have another healer to talk with, but absolutely not unwelcome.

But Marco’s ability to heal does not come exclusively from whatever grows in the woods. It is, indeed, a small part of it.

She gets to experience it first-hand.

Sha has been with him for roughly a week when an incident takes place. They are foraging in the woods near the cave, looking to restock on some bark and mushrooms. She has told him about a recipe Ace used to love, and therefore got to pester her until she made it for him. Since that has piqued Marco’s curiosity, he is willing to taste it, too.

The day is overly calm, but somehow, the tall man’s presence makes the shadows much less daunting than they would normally be.

Banter flows easily between the two, even if she still acts guarded from time to time. Trust does not come easily to her, no matter how good of a person Marco turns out to be. She just needs time and, strangely enough, instead of appearing upset, the blond seems more than happy to oblige.

So, there she is, kneeling on the cold ground, hands dirty from rummaging through the humid soil in search for the juiciest mushrooms, when she startles. She almost bites her own tongue off when the bush to her right shakes violently without warning, and the tight coils in her muscles makes her tumble ‒rather ungracefully‒ to the ground.

The sound of footsteps comes from behind her, and suddenly, all she can see is Marco in his old-fashioned blue tunic, crouching in front of her as if to protect her from danger.

As it turns out, there is no need to feel threatened. From the rattling bush emerges a bundle of feathers, torn and messy and almost unrecognisable. Marco is over there in a heartbeat, and she wonders ‒still laying on her butt‒ just how fast this man can move.

She watches with ill-disguised curiosity how he works around the thorny bush to get the creature out. His hands thread slowly but confidently towards the mess. Despite how carefully he moves, the creature is not reassured about his intentions. It startles from the unwanted touch, only managing to get even more tangled. A soft curse leaves Marco’s mouth ‒it is the very first time she hears him curse‒ and proceeds to dive even deeper into the shrubbery.

Some minutes ‒and a good back-and-forth with the feathery fiend‒ later, he emerges with a victorious grin on his features and the most horrendous thing in his hands.

“This little friend likes playing hard-to-get, apparently”, he kind of boasts, but the effect is lost since he is a little out of breath from the struggle. His blond tuft of hair even has a feather sticking out of it.

But right now is not the moment to point that out.

“How on earth… Marco, what happened to it?”

She is not a bit impressed by his apparent prowess, but rather shocked by the picture of it.

The creature turns out to be an eagle. The being trapped in the thorny bush is an eagle ‒ _had_ been an eagle at some point in the past. Now it is a marred pile of torn flesh and broken bones. Its otherwise majestic wings are twisted to the point of almost being undistinguishable. Its beak is broken, tongue grotesquely lolling about in its mouth. The animal is in obvious pain, as it cannot be any other way.

She asks herself if its feather had already been bundled and torn before it had fallen from the skies, or if it is the outcome of the struggle to get it out. But is does not really matter, does it? All that she should care about now is the pain in those deep, wise eyes and how her, as the healer she prides herself to be, can put an end to it.

“I have my own suspicions.” When Marco answers her prior question, she flinches. She had been so enraptured by the eagle’s pitiful state that she had foregone his presence for a moment. “But I think we should ask him. He’ll be able to tell us more ~yoi.”

Whatever he means by that, she does not ponder. “We have to heal it first. I don’t really have in my hands much experience with birds, but maybe if we immobilise the wings ‒or what’s left of them, then…”

“No need ~yoi”, mumbles Marco beside her.

She has moved closer without even thinking, and now they are crouching side by side, examining the fallen animal.

And just like that, she gets to experience on of the most marvellous things she will ever bear witness to in her whole lifespan.

Almost casually, but with undeniable grace, Marco rolls one of his wrists with a lazy disposition. She is not looking at his face, but had she done so, she would have witnessed the bright spark that lightens his indigo eyes almost as a brief warning. But then again, she is more enraptured by the way his left hand burns up with blue and golden fire.

She does scream the second time her buttocks hit the ground, but her eyes do not stray from the view. The flames in Marco’s hand lap gently at the eagle’s form, and then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the magical fire ‒oh, because there is absolutely no doubt that there is magic involved in all of this‒ flares un violently and engulfs the animal whole.

From her position on the ground, she watches. Half terrorised and half fascinated, she does not dare close her eyelids even for a second. She drinks in every detail almost greedily ‒how Marco does not seem bothered by the fire’s raw strength, how the eagle is not suffering from it but, on the contrary, has stopped resisting, how she does not feel the heat on her cheeks despite being a little too close to the burning display of dancing flames.

But mostly she is dumbfounded by the sheer beauty of it all. The fire reminds her of golden sunbeams threading through the bluest portion of a summer’s sky. It burns like life itself, like the essence of the goddesses must shine on mortal eyes.

Oddly enough, she feels the urge to cry.

She truly feels blessed in this moment, for there is no more fear, no more sorrow in her heart.

It is magical, there is no other word to describe what she is witnessing. There never will be.

It is hard to pinpoint when, exactly, she has shifted her gaze from the flames to Marco. With this sudden realization, she stutters over nothing and adverts her eyes. The heat she had been missing on her cheeks comes in full force now, but the fire has nothing to do with this occurrence. If anything, it is another type of fire completely that she should blame.

Ah, but there is something else to worry about at the moment.

To her utmost bafflement, the eagle appears to be fully healed. The more the flames recede back into Marco’s palm, the more of the bird is revealed.

The beak, completely destroyed a minute prior, gleams in the weak sunlight with a blatant kind of pride, sharp and dangerous. Its feathers are no longer rumpled ‒now they appear perfectly groomed, soft and fluffy and shimmering with the quiet breeze. They are an uncommon shade of crimson, now that they are back into shape, and that is the first noticeable sign that perhaps this is not a normal bird at all. The second sign are its eyes, pain no longer present in them, which fix her with a glare that is too knowing for an animal without a conscience of itself.

As if reading her thoughts, the eagle bows its impeccable head in a curt reverence ‒first towards Marco, then to her. She almost squeals the moment those intense yellow irises fixate on her. But the next moment the strange bird is airborne again, and the experience ends.

All that is left to prove that the happening has been more than a deliriant illusion is the vibrant shine in Marco’s eyes. His gaze is the bluest blue when he locks eyes with her, and for a while, neither speaks.

She wonders if the calm stillness is some part of an enchantment the man has put on her with nothing but the magic in his eyes, or if she, perhaps, has developed some idiocy-related syndrome. Because, as much as she wants to speak, praise him, scream in amazement, no sound comes out of her mouth.

Yes, certainly a total idiot. What has become of her?

On his own part, Marco is left watching the tiny ‒or, at least, tiny compared _to him_ ‒ girl with a mouth hanging open. He does not necessarily know how to feel about the whole ordeal. Suddenly, she is hard to read, for someone with such open expressions.

He does not want to admit that he had hoped to go for an impressed look on her face. He does not want to admit it, because if Ace and the others could see him now, they would mock him with such _gusto_ that there would be snorts and brats doubled over in laughter, and Marco is rightfully the oldest, so he would like a little bit of respect, thank you.

But the longer she stays like this, unmoving and gaping, the more uncomfortable he feels with himself. It is almost as if they had reverted to that first encounter, when she was untrusting and he tried not to prove how utterly awkward he felt.

Had it been too much, too soon, too suddenly? He hopes not, goddesses and all, but he is unsure. Had he gone and scared her for good?

“Hey”, he says, trying not to sound too loud or pleading, but ‒ _well_. “Is someone there ~yoi? Please, say something.”

It has an immediate effect. She closes her mouth with a clacking sound, fast and hard. Marco tries not to wince, but it looks like she has bitten the inside of her mouth or something akin to that, if the whiny face she pulls is any indication.

It would have been comical, but instead, the both of them feel a little out of their respective depths. They know that what has transpired has shaken them both, if not equally, at least in some measure.

Not until later that same night she finds the courage to ask.

“Is that what you did to my arm?”

Her voice is so small that it barely carries over the pit where the mushroom delicacy is getting cooked, but somehow, as he usually does, Marco hears it.

“What you did to that eagle, earlier”, she clarifies, seeing that he has only lifted an eyebrow in confusion. “Is that how you healed me, when you found me at the shrine?”

“Yes”, he curtly answers, and then, “does it bother you?”

“Bother me?” Now it is her turn to be confused. “Why would I feel bothered? You healed a wound that I would have struggled myself, even with appropriate materials, which I didn’t have. Obviously, missing the fact that I was barely conscious back then. The only thing I regret is not having been awake to watch.”

Marco smiles, then. He is not even looking at her, but at the fire, and is such a quiet thing that it could have been totally overlooked. But it is not, and that is exactly the thing, because he looks so merry even inf the line that stretches his lips into a smile is thin and humble.

And damnit, she was not a person prone to blushing before she met him, but now she catches herself doing it twice in a single day. How laughable.

“There’s one thing I don’t quite understand, though.” She fiddles her fingers a little, trying to find the right words. “You managed to heal that eagle just fine, and its wounds were truly gruesome. Not to be ungrateful or anything, but… why haven’t I healed completely?”

This is a thought that has been pestering her for the whole day. She has taken the bandages off a couple of times before, always with Marco by her side to readily offer his help. Under the bandages, her skin is marred. Not terribly ‒it certainly could have been much worse, but she does not want to entertain the thought of how it would have been to lose an arm. There are a few lines that run along her skin, crooking over the muscles almost like spiderwebs. The marks do not resemble a bite in the least, and they are an angry shade of maroon, almost like a fresh bruise.

“Well ~yoi, putting it in the simplest way… That eagle you saw earlier and yourself are not the same. I know it seems like such an obvious thing, but there is more to magic than meets the eye, so let me elaborate.”

He shifts closer to her, clearing his throat while he repositions himself on the floor.

“It wasn’t exactly an eagle what we saw earlier today. It was a spirit who had taken the form of a bird of prey, which is a different thing altogether. Most of them do, mind you ~yoi. Not many can be bothered to become a great oak or a giant rock. Guess you could imagine why.”

“It has to be painfully boring”, they snickered.

“Actually, I haven’t met that one before ~yoi, so he must have been just passing through the woods when he was attacked.”

There is a small pause that Marco seemingly uses to gather his thoughts, because when he next talks his voice sounds far away, with less mirth in it.

“Other spirits accept magic easily into their system. It is a part of them, of us, so it is only natural. For you, it would be like drinking water ~yoi. But humans tend to react negatively to it. It could be more a thing of the mind than a physical rejection, as far as I am aware, but I have no means to prove it. Ultimately, your body is just more reluctant to accept my magic and use it to heal itself. There are limitations to what I can do for you ~yoi.”

Marco falls into silence again, too focused on stirring the pot for it to be natural.

She ponders about the implications of his words. If Marco, being a talented healer, had seen no other choice but to use his magic to save her, a magic that could have not worked toits full potential due to her human condition, then the situation must have been really dire.

She trembles at the thought, a full-body shiver wracking her spine.

Apparently, he is not done talking. “Which is why I want to apologise. I used my abilities on you while you were unconscious. Given how you can use sigils and that I thought you were a witch, I really didn’t… stop to consider the consequences. But now I see different ~yoi. So, sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable. I foolishly put your life in danger.”

_‘Uncomfortable? What is this man talking about?’_

The fire creaks in the silent cave.

_‘Uncomfortable? Has he gone mad in the head?’_

Marco coughs, but is obviously not a real one. And perhaps it is a bit farfetched, but that is what makes her snap.

“Alright, Mr. Magical Hands, first off: You saved my life. I don’t think it’s fair to deal in terms of comfort here.” She is telling him off with a determined set on her brow, but on the inside, she fears she is overstepping some invisible boundary. After all, out of the two of them, there is _only one_ ancient being with magical powers, and it is most certainly not her. “And, secondly, I’m almost jealous of your power, honestly. You are able to save lives, and if that’s not the best gift the goddesses could have given you, I really don’t know anything anymore.”

Marco’s blue eyes go uncharacteristically wide, and she, of course, starts to backtrack internally.

_‘Crap, did I say something inadequate again!?’_

But no, apparently not this time. Because he laughs, open and full, and just like that the tension that had been simmering all afternoon fades as if it had never existed in the first place.

“By the goddesses and everything holy”, Marco heaves, breath short, “I can only imagine what a good time Ace had with you ~yoi.”

She rolls her eyes good-heartedly.

“More like I really had a hard time with him. He just spent the day grumbling and ate half of my food reserves.”

The evening goes away with easy conversation and laughter, everything else forgotten in favour of a hearty dinner and good company.

.

∞

.

Alright, maybe she has misread how smoothly things were going to be around Marco. That one is totally on her. Because it sure as hell there is nothing remotely _smooth_ about this conversation.

“I insist.”

“And I said it was fine ~yoi. There’s no need to be stubborn over this.”

Maybe there really is not, and she is acting out on a whim more than anything. But even if he has told her that ‘spirits don’t need sleep as much as humans do’ and all that bear crap, she still feels terrible about it.

Because, as things stand, she has been _holding the only bed hostage_ for a week, and he has not said a word about it.

“But it’s your bed!”

“And I’ve told you, you can have it ~yoi. I’m not very much used to having guests, but Father taught me my manners, just so you know.”

What she does not know is if he is being sarcastic right now, or what.

“I don’t-“

“-need sleep. Yes, I’ve heard. But I know from watching Ace snort the days away that your kind can enjoy the rest, too.” Her stare goes a little hazy, losing its hardness. “I know what I’m saying.”

Hearing that, Marco has to physically fight the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

_‘Damnit, Ace. Your obnoxious ass is giving me trouble even when you’re not around.’_

The blond man does not want to admit, not even to himself, that he _is_ feeling quite tired. He cannot pinpoint when exactly was the last time he has had a full night of sleep, but he is almost convinced that it was way before he found the girl at Father’s shrine. His limbs feel heavy and his mind is faring way worse than he is letting on for her sake. 

But damn him if he is giving up that easily.

Of course, there is a reason why he is being particularly adamant on this issue. And that reason is, ironically, how much he actually wants to share a bed with this human girl that stands in front of him, jaw set firm and hands planted on her hips as if she would not doubt to hurt him if he dared refuse her offering.

Now, Marco is a powerful entity. But not even the greatest of spirits are free of hopes and dreams and needs and feelings ‒ _ugh_. And this human girl feels like more than just casual company to a lonely man like him, more than he could have hoped for. There is a sort of camaraderie growing between the both of them. Marco can sense it gripping his ankles and slowly climbing up, up, up towards his chest.

He knows perfectly well that the sensible thing to do would be to stop it from growing anymore than it already has, but the mischievous part of himself ‒and it is no small part‒ wants to know what will happen. It is almost desperate for it.

The real question, however, still remains unanswered. Can he trust himself not to act foolishly while sharing such a close space? It is unlikely, given his record. But the urge to indulge is too strong. It seems as if his heart has won the battle against his brain, because it is more than done with keeping itself detached and simply _aching_.

_‘Guess Thatch was right that time he called me an ‘incorrigible old fucker’, huh. Who would have thought?’_

The shining smile on her face when Marco finally relents is already enough to make up for all of his reluctance.

.

∞

.

She can tell Marco had missed his own bed. It is funny, how he tries ‒and miserably fails‒ to suppress a relieved sigh the moment his body touches the pile of furs. Or how he tries ‒and obviously fails, _yet_ _again_ ‒ to appear indifferent to it all, but his eyes lose that tense edge that had appeared some days prior and that can only be caused by sheer exhaustion.

But she is not much better than him, is she? Buried under the covers next to the blond man, her face pulls expressions without her consent. She has never liked feeling like an open book, but there are some things that cannot be helped, are there not?

Just two idiots being helpless, simple as that.

She reaches her breaking point when Marco asks if she is feeling unwell.

“just a little cold”, she lies, even though her cheeks feel hot and the fire is still alight a few paces away. “Moreover, what have you actually been up to these past nights, if I may ask?”

If he catches the brusque change of topic, he does not say anything. Deflecting is an art hard to master, after all. Instead, he shuffles a little under the covers until she feels him pressed against her side. It is not an imposing gesture, only the littlest touch of arm against arm. Marco is incredibly warm, his body heat noticeable even through the layers of clothing separating them. It is no wonder, really, for the goddesses made him with fire and light. It is only natural, then.

It occurs to her a moment later that he is doing it so she is not cold anymore. Her heart decides it is time to leave her chest by force.

“Well ~yoi.” He is totally oblivious to how affected she is by the closeness. “I _am_ a guardian spirit, even if you refuse to acknowledge the fact”, he jokes.

“I _do not_!”, she denies, turning immediately to face him. Bashfulness forgotten because of his mocking tone. “But you have to admit that most of the time you behave like a regular old man, going on about the weather and your homemade remedies.”

Marco’s eyes widen in faux offense. “Kind of rough to hear that from a brat ~yoi.”

“Brat?” Now it is her turn to be mock affronted. His teasing grin is not helping matters, either. “You always call me ‘girl’, but I’ll have you know that I’m a fully grown woman. Some would consider me too old to marry, even.”

“So, you’re a spinster?”, he laughs, deep. “Guess that makes us a couple of elders ~yoi.”

“No, just you.”

“Why, you-“

She yelps when he shoves her further under the covers as his payback. Their chuckles bound off the cave walls.

It almost feels as if the world is good and well, no cursed land to worry about, no mean dispositions fearing whatever is different, no hatred tainting the soil like and illness.

When dawn comes, she does not open her eyes. Instead, she basks in the quietness od the early morning. The fire has gone out some time ago, but the body by her side provides enough warmth for both of them, even in the coldest season.

His smell is so familiar now, but she still enjoys it with a puff of air through her nostrils. There was a time when she dreamt of it, of blue and gold among the gruesome sight of crimson. Despite the terrible memory, she smiles, snuggling deeper into the bedding.

Marco’s soft snores have stopped, but she does not realise it as she plunges back into sleep’s sweet embrace.

.

∞

.

Good things always come to an end.

This is a widely known idiom, even if she has never stopped to give it much thought. It is just something people say when they do not know which words to use on their own. A too used phrase, mangled and abused until it has almost lost its meaning.

Now, however, those same words come with full force to slap her on the face with reckless satisfaction.

Because Marco has been gone for the whole day. It is the longest she has gone without seeing him since they met, and so, she cannot help but be worried sick. It is s unlike him ‒but, then again, he is a supernatural entity. It is ridiculous to judge his behaviour based on such domestic terms as ‘being late’. Right? Right.

Still.

The hours pass by agonisingly. When she deems that she cannot take it anymore, she comes to a decision. Packing anything that will probably come in handy, she leaves the cave with haste.

Maybe it is not her brightest idea, to venture into the woods in the dead of night, but each time she considers waiting until morning comes, safely back in Marco’s refuge, her mind floods with images of a half-dead Ace in the middle of nowhere, and the possibilities mortify her.

She takes into the forest scarcely prepared, like a child ignorant of the dangers of the woods in the middle of the pitch-black night. If anything must befall her, she thinks, at least she will not die feeling the painful remorse that comes with inaction.

 _‘How silly, to be this reckless for a man I barely know.’_ Nevertheless, she continues.

Little by little, the dark depths of the forest engulf her with silent delight. The cave disappears behind her. The moonless sky only shakes with fear, oblivious to what hides under the cover of the trees, but afraid of it all the same.

She is back into the woods, back where it all started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOOD LORD, WHY IS THIS DOMESTIC? Please, save me from myself.
> 
> Well, now that my rant is over, I know I've made you guys wait way too long for this, but you know, life can't really be helped sometimes. So, I'm deeply sorry. Please, enjoy the reading and forgive Yours Truly for the tardiness. You make may day whenever you drop by, so thanks so much for staying with me through this journey.
> 
> Next chapter is the last one, so hopefully I'll take it out sooner than later.


End file.
